Bring All of You Inside Me by Elleth

Chapter 1

Many thanks to IdleLeaves for the encouragement/enabling and ElrondsLibrary for the excellent beta! ♥ The title of this fic is from Vienna Tengs's song "Now Three". 

Alphangil woke with a start.

The bed around her was cold, the bedcovers lopsided and her blankets tangled and kicked to the foot end. She shivered, feeling sweat cooling on her skin in the chill air of the room; a servant must have banked the fire for morning. Grasping for recall of the dream in her mind, at first she suspected a nightmare of the Sudden Flame, but the pleasing thrum vibrating alongside a dim recall of two bodies outlined by a fireplace told her otherwise, and she muffled a laugh into her pillows.

"You impossible man," she said aloud, fondly, into the darkness of the room, and sent the thought over the connection that knitted itself into her mind when she opened it, laughter with it. She gasped in pleasure when a frisson of lust flared up from the center of her body, so sudden the surge of it was almost, but not quite, painful. Fingon knew exactly what she could bear.

She could nearly see, with a pang of love and missing-them, Fingon and Maedhros together in Barad Forthir, Fingon's main keep in northern Hithlum, and wanted nothing more than wings to fly the distance from Eglarest and fall into the window of their shared bedroom. She wanted to see Fingon stretched out naked, hard and aching while Maedhros took his sweet time with him.

Her hand stole downward, nudged her nightshirt up and ran fingertips over the skin of her stomach and breasts the way Fingon delighted in doing, the slightest ticklish sensation. She felt a squirm and answering laughter trickle back to her, as if Fingon was laughing in her ear, huffing warm breaths against the shell of it, as if his lips trailed all the way to its tip and closed around it.

Alphangil rolled to her side, pressing her face into her pillows and stifled a moan. It had been too long, and this – this was a first. But the walls of the Havens were thin, and she wanted neither Círdan, in whose house she and Gil-galad were guests, nor her son, to know of this. She needed — needed this, needed the phantom feeling of Fingon's kisses and the gentle scrape of his teeth down her throat to be reality, needed the stutter of his heartbeat echoing against her while Maedhros pleasured him in turn. She could feel, through Fingon, Maedhros' hand on his hip and the pressure of his forearm across Fingon's belly as if it lay on her own, as if Maedhros took him in his mouth, hot and wet and aching-slow and all too brief, before he withdrew and left Fingon bucking his hips into the empty air.

This was all she had.

Her fingers found their way into her underclothes, probing herself for her readiness, and she stifled another gasp when finally, Maedhros also joined the ósanwë between them, a gentle, white-hot presence that warmed her even in thought.

The sensation of being kissed came to her from both of them at once, at once Maedhros kissing Fingon slowly, deeply, and at the same time from Fingon, being kissed so thoroughly his hold on the ósanwë wavered in her mind as his concentration did. She could just imagine his eyelids fluttering with pleasure as he momentarily took leave of his senses, the feelings magnified and refracted through all three of them into something incandescent and radiant.

A smirk tugged at her lips as she began to touch herself. It was only her own hand, but absent her husband and her lover, she had learned how to best satisfy herself on her own. One hand on her breast, fingers firm in the soft flesh and kneading, massaging, stroking, the way Maedhros often did because he knew she liked it, although her hand lacked the sword-callouses he bore. The other was at work between her legs, trailing her thighs, her outer lips and inner, gathering up the slick wetness and slipping into herself slowly, focusing that thought, that feeling of herself empty and wanting her husband. If asked, she would have sworn she could have heard Fingon moan out a half-delirious, half-desperate noise as she slipped one finger and then another into herself and began moving while her thumb circled and teased her clit.

She could also, amid the little gasps that she failed to swallow down, feel Maedhros, always attentive, watching. Infinitely better-worse, she could feel him mimicking her movements on Fingon, fingers slick with oil, readying him to be taken, while Fingon, half-insensate with pleasure, lay under their joint barrage down the ósanwë-bond like their plaything.

Husband-mine, you are so beautiful, she thought towards Fingon, who returned a pleased shudder at her. At Maedhros, who was almost, but not quite, laughing over Fingon's response to her praise, she thought, And you are beautiful also, even if telling you will not get the same reaction; it remains the truth.

And she laughed as well, breathless at the flicker of amused, unfocused consternation from Fingon and the flare of good humor from Maedhros, and let all her longing for them both wash toward them like a spring flood in a river. All that time, she never stopped caressing herself.

As she worked herself toward her climax slowly, drawing it out to let her hammering heart slow a little, to listen in to Maedhros coaxing pleasure from Fingon with expert movements of his fingers, crooking them just so and causing shudders to race through him, she realized that for all the glory and intimacy of this, she missed them. Missed Maedhros' wit, missed the way he stroked her face through her climax; missed Fingon's scent of frankincense, the thick smell of sex, the weight of her husband's body on her, too physical to be any more than memory and recall, a ghost across the bond. A thought could not bear her down into the mattress no matter how hard she ground her hips down, no matter how much she pressed her shoulders into it. She did it all the same.

All of it, the separation and loneliness – she knew – was out of love, out of the desire to keep her safe. She was no fighter, had no place on a battlefield. But before she allowed any of the melancholy slip into their bond, she sent another wave of warmth and love toward both of them instead, the feeling of the heat in her cheeks and gathering in the core of her body, the delicious pressure building there.

She could feel, once again twofold, Maedhros enter Fingon's body, finally, Fingon yielding himself up so eagerly, the stretch and burn of accommodating him, the fullness. Alphangil slipped a third finger into herself, stroked and thrust and stilled against her caress, biting down on her lips as Fingon, overstimulated already, choked out a cry down their connection and came in a blinding rush that made her wonder how long Maedhros had been toying with him before she woke, and how much of it had burrowed its way into her dreams.

She could feel how Maedhros continued fucking him even through his orgasm, chasing down his own relief, now gorgeously selfish and needy for all his composure. Her own efforts redoubled and she focused her thoughts like an arrow on Maedhros' mind, building a push and pull as if she were riding Fingon while Maedhros took him. Fingon, once more caught in the middle, came again with another rush that pulled Maedhros across the edge as well, and she let go, too, falling into light after them.

After — a wordless, lingering warmth.

Alphangil, her breath still coming in gasps, righted her clothes and pulled the mussed blankets into a nest with herself in the center as best she could without rising, because she was not sure her knees would support her. She wrapped her arms around her torso, knowing that miles and miles away, Fingon and Maedhros lay entwined together, both drifting into sleep, safe for the moment and comfortable in each other. As their thoughts became fuzzier, the ósanwë less pronounced before it dissipated like mist on the hills, she, too, tried to close her eyes and resolved to ride to them soon, or ask them to come to the Havens. At least then she would not have to sleep alone.

Chapter End Notes

Long-distance ósanwë smut? Long-distance ósanwë smut.